


Paulo Dolor

by Begone



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Cock & Ball Torture, Consensual Sex, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Gender-Neutral Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Hatesex, Humiliation/Degradation, Lahabrea gets stepped on, Oral Sex, Other, Vaginal Fingering, and last but not least, extreme masochism, screwing around in the sylphlands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Begone/pseuds/Begone
Summary: It's a terrible day to be named Lahabrea.
Relationships: Lahabrea/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	Paulo Dolor

There are a great many things Lahabrea should not be doing, but the itch and shame of pacing his chambers only lets his mind roam towards and hyperfixate upon the last few weeks. He had to do something, the need burned in the veins of his aether, each minute without action just solidified his failings and drove him closer to a breaking point. He needed to set it right the same way a man wanted to set a dislocated limb, though this wound was far deeper and the knife still deep in his heart.

Even colloquially referring to the Warrior of Light set him off. Elidibus had him nigh-arrested and barred, because the utterance of that _pest’s_ name was enough to make his gauntlets crack a table, magic blaze enough to clear out his vicinity, scream until his voice bled and nothing came out but hoarse air. Or maybe it was to avoid _mucking things up_ again. Elidibus _did_ say he had a plan, that Lahabrea should rest, that all will be well, that _Nabriales_ would take up his mantle while he convalesced.

But it wouldn’t be _his_ fingers making things right. _He_ didn’t want to be helped out of _his_ hole. _He_ wanted to climb out of it _himself_. _No matter the cost_.

And every attempt he made to rectify, the Warrior stepped in turn. He moved one step forwards, they two. He was run down, left to fester, corrupted by Light, torn from his vessel harsh enough that whenever he touched his soul it _smarted_ like water on coals. It made something terrifying burn in his depths, consuming and violent, a need to one-up, grasp, be struck, fall, burn with frenetic animosity as he was held down and-

It was natural for Lahabrea to think, stop his pacing, and flip the nearest table at his recent thread of thought, transforming myriads of models into a jigsaw with a thousand pieces. It was sudden and senseless to those not privy to his thoughts, erratic and unpredictable, a _liability_ if you were cloaked in white.

He demanded action, advised inaction.

But it was not a rule.

And he was Lahabrea.

What little aether he can muster is put into a teleport, reserves almost low enough to call himself a Sundered, this fleshly vessel piss poor at revitalizing the once-booming corona of aether that cloaked him. It would be months, Elidibus had mused, before his soul recovered from the injury, his tattered halo so weak an Ancient child could easily overpower him.

But not a Sundered, not some Hydaelyn-adulating hero seven times rejoined. _He_ and his had returned them that power, and Lahabrea will yet show these ungrateful worms what true knowledge, true understanding, could accomplish, even with his current hindrance. No more pawns, he would move the queen alone, cut down all opposition with the power to do as he could.

It is grotesque how low he could feel his aether reserves once he lands, a type of fatigue unable to be expressed in words. But he ran on fervor, bad decisions, and unadulterated prurience now, knowing what his underling was sowing for them to reap. Nabriales doing _his own_ rightful duty made his soul twist in nauseous turns, but the sundered Ascian’s involvement was yet unknown to those who suffered his plotting.

White lies never hurt anyone.

(He started to believe them as truth)

The Twelveswood’s air stank of humidity, ozone, and woody petrichor. Filthy, unconquered, overgrown on the ruins of a world once tamed and domesticated. He’d exhaust himself further in search, willing fumes to ignite in united need and desire. He knows they’re here, heard the whispers in the halls, shadowed meetings he was barred from, his broken, flagging, browbeaten soul so insignificant he could play fly in the shadows. Separated, he searches, and finds the feral energy to continue with a one on one fight in mind.

_Eight on one is ridiculous_.

But _they_ don’t notice him following, perhaps because he is quiet, too far away, or the injury they gave him a blessing in disguise. The latter makes him burn, grit his teeth and lie. No, he is fine at controlling himself. He is perfection, unable to err. He will break them upon his knee, a punishment for daring to touch him. Watch them shed glorious tears as he looms above them, maybe even beg a little, call him things he wanted to hear from mouths far elder to this scurrying rodent’s.

One last teleport leaves him perched on a hummock, boots sinking into a thick layer of moss and decayed leaves. He’s practically shaking in fury and excitement, finally able to vomit the words he repeated in his head like the holiest of prayers. Vitriol scalding and molten, to be shaped into a dagger to cut out their heart, rehearsed in mental scenarios that always ended in a racy haze.

“Doing your _Mother’s_ menial work again, _Laborer_ of Light?” Smug, voice raised higher than necessary, it’s the perfect little insult to this deplorable being that ~~bested~~ insulted him.

It takes a second to register, but the Warrior turns to face him, stepping forwards, only slightly aggressive in stance, predictably stoic and silent. And Lahabrea faces them arms crossed, back straight, posture the best it has been since his forced bedrest. They _cannot_ , _do not_ notice his state, how he’s a tattered raven pulling at an eagle’s tail. And he knows how to hide.

“Chasing after my coattails, two steps behind me at every turn. Playing straight into my claws, so unaware of what you are to me, aren’t you…?” He rolls every word like the finest wine across his tongue, perverts an orator’s charming lit for wild disparagement. And he grins ear from ear, holds his head high, inspects his claws, smooths his robes, touches everything that he wants to appear whole.

“I so benevolently give the means to summon a primal, it materializes, you dispose of it. Rinse and repeat, like a well-trained hound, whipping the beastmen into the lurid depths of zealotry all to weaken your _travesty_ of a goddess for me. And here we are at the latest incarnation of all this --!”

Lahabrea is taken aback by the sudden flare of heat, panic settling into his core as he _didn’t realize_ the Warrior of Light would dare to interrupt him. But it does not hit him, his insides roil with savage glee at the fact. Ignores the splutter of his aether as a teleport spell falters, _purely_ from the fact he didn’t need it. _Not_ because he couldn’t.

“Hah! You miss-ed?”

Lahabrea feels his gut lurch in weightlessness, the groan and snap of wood below him. He calls for his magic but it’s dead, spluttering, refusing to come to fruition as he falls. It’s abjectly terrifying to fall and be unable to right himself, to land on his back in a shower of humus that draws a halted scream from his throat, equal parts rancor and pain.

Physical pain is visceral and alien to him. It burns like fury, only stokes his flames of rage. Dull, demeaning, disgraceful to his full ancient might. His ears ring for a few seconds, gasps for air until the sound of footfalls make him freeze.

For a long drawn-out second, Lahabrea can see the treetops, gently waving in unseen breeze, another stolen day on the fractured vanity of the Source.

In the next his head curls back and spine arches as his hand explodes into lurid, blunt pain that makes the edges of his vision go black and fade. His fingers crack like dry twigs, staccato over his scream, making the mistake of curling his head towards his injured hand, the other foot coming up and striking him in what would have been his eye socket, if not for his mask. It breaks with a softer snap than his hand, his head colliding with the ground, dazing him with nausea for a few seconds.

He can’t hear anything over the chime of blood in his ears, the blunt reality of pain fazing his senses for a few seconds. Lahabrea eventually does come into awareness with the weight off his hand and the worst possible sight looming above him.

There’s the tip of a boot on his Adam’s apple, simply there, a threat that almost makes him reflexively gag. His mask is shattered on the left side, hand throbbing in time with his fluttering heartbeat. In but a few seconds, Lahabrea was unceremoniously run down (again) and made a fool ( _again_ ). It makes his blood boil hot and the pain to disappear as his face flushes and his teeth bare. For an orator, all he can present is an animalistic spit of fury, cutting the back of his throat and leaving it burning as raw as his hand.

The Warrior tenses, leather of their boot creaking, Lahabrea forced to backpedal his visible aggression; too proud to beg, trying to hold back the tears making his vision blur. He hates them so much. It’s inconceivable, irrevocable, indelible how deeply he wishes to wipe that soft smirk off the Warrior’s lips. How he’s forced to put his own lips together, try and look meek and defeated like _before_. Oh his rage still shows. His lip twitches, his hand throbs so hard it makes his mind reel and blood flow hot. It’s a nightmarish cocktail that goes _straight to his groin_.

The shock is what slackens his face. With no small amount of horror, he realizes he’s aroused. Right in his tight, red shorts. His eyes lock on the Warrior, the master of asking a question with a simple quirk of their brow. It’s a terrible, horrible day to be Lahabrea, especially when he realized that his hatred had reached straight around to lust. He wants to kick and claw and struggle and just the thought of being so easily rebuffed sends an electric pull to his groin. He would try his damndest and more only to fall flat on his back like this with a boot on his throat and wishing for a hand on his-

Lahabrea swallowed thickly.

“Get off of _me_ ,” The vitriol is there, but he scrambles to piece together something more, “You think you have any right to touch me? _Me_?”

“Turnabout’s fair play,” The Warrior’s voice is low, arms crossed delicately, toe of their boot tapping Lahabrea ever so slightly on the neck, “But ultimately wasted on trash like you.”

Lahabrea snarls like a cornered animal, baring teeth and pressing his neck into that boot, uncaring for the pressure there that made his eyes smart. He wants to do more than kill them, he wants to put his claws around them until their throat turns purple and their breath wheezes like the crunch of dried leaves. Break their arms and legs and watch them cry until snot mixes with tears and they beg for his-

Lahabrea halts himself again with a harsh flinch and a sudden change of expression, head thunking into the ground. The Warrior just has that blank, almost vapid look that only makes Lahabrea writhe under them, exhaling sharply when the foot near his neck moves to land heavily on his chest, a constant pressure. His hand throbs in exquisite, painful pleasure, only stoking the fire within him and making him bare teeth _again_ , desperately wishing he had enough energy to muster even a simple spell. Something, just to change that stupid look on their face.

But they haven’t noticed his _condition_ yet, somehow that is simultaneously a disappointment as something to praise Zodiark for. The Warrior simply is content to keep him pinned, let Lahabrea stew in his thoughts, possibly amused at how a counterattack isn’t (cannot be) coming. It’s infuriating and humiliating to have only a few pounds of foot keeping him from getting up, when not even a month ago he could annihilate this entire clearing without lifting a single finger.

And it makes his dick _throb_ as hard as his fractured hand.

The Warrior watches, but soon crosses their arms, making Lahabrea still and quirk his brow at the face they make, a slightly familiar one. “Pathetic,” They make a mockery of his voice, “Where is that unrivalled power now? I’ve faced novices who put up more of a fight than you, o _Paragon_.”

Sundered novices, the equivalent of a weak breeze. Calling him the equivalent of a piece of paper that blew over at the slightest gust of wind. Could he even come back from that?

“I do not need to use my full power against a wretch that gained everything they have through trickery and the gifts of their goddess,” Lahabrea will always have vitriol in him, even if his aether reserves were empty.

“Thancred,” Oh do not _mention_ him. The very name makes Lahabrea’s cock wilt from the sheer horror of remembering the turmoil of that conjoined existence.

“… Was a success,” Absolutely not, “You _lot_ never noticed me in his body, let me do as I pleased. Were you of my power, it’d be clear as day, but your eyes remained blissfully ignorant until I revealed myself.”

The Warrior stills at this, and he has them. Oh, his knife struck and caught! The comeback is not instant and Lahabrea grins wide enough to show gums, the lone eye exposed glinting with feral light.

“And you so easily cut down your own, broken savage that you are. Does my _threat_ overtake your camaraderie? Call me all the humiliating names you wish, but you didn’t know if I’d leave Thancred a corpse. You call me weak, but then again, would a weak man garner such a reaction? Such alacrity to draw blade?”

The pause is beautiful, suffusing him with the same fiery thrill that utterly silencing someone in a debate once gave him.

“He knew his duty. A shame he survived, but then again, _mother_ always said _heed not the dark minion’s words_.” They tilt their head, once again impassive as Lahabrea’s mind _broke_.

The champion of light, so flippant in their cohort’s lives, to someone he _assumed_ was important to them, to the Scions, ultimately expendable. The rational part of his brain said yes, it is logical; they are Sundered, they do not have the inherent Amaurotine respect for each other. But. _But_. The Children of Hydaelyn are adjacent to them, the Paragons of Zodiark. By all means comparisons can be drawn. And a tiny, loud part of Lahabrea’s mind posits a terrifying question:

If the servants of Light are so happy to kill their own for duty, is that not what your order was founded on? With all your failures, when does it become your duty to die like the citizens who engendered your masterpiece? When will the day come that your brethren gather around you and command you close your eyes for the greater good? When will they decide to not intervene, to leave you to your fate?

It makes his blood congeal in his veins, slamming shut the furnace his mind had been moments ago. By all means, his judgement day was nigh, had been for twelve thousand years. An oath could only last for so long, withstand so many mistakes until it had to be revoked. The burning edges of his soul were a testament to that, all the times he failed and was wrung through self-inflicted hell while his cohorts watched him burn.

A slight pressure on his chest centers him, brings him back from the depths of his mind. It snaps his mind back to attention; that he, _Lahabrea_ , had lost himself in his thoughts while the Warrior of Light towered above him, boot to his chest, heel so perilously close to his heart. It _shouldn’t_ make him suddenly warm, shouldn’t give him a sinfully euphoric feeling. He hates it and loves it, bares teeth just to hide the childish glee, growls to hide a hiss of pleasure.

“Cat got your tongue?” The Warrior asks, “Or enjoying this more than you should?”

His answer is probably given by the shock that strikes his face, Lahabrea at once regretful his mask was so shattered. Surprise and anger looked the same on a mouth when one had his level of practice, but with his eyes and brow on display, his charade was up, so to speak. Outside, he can’t hide the shame, inside, it burns delightfully in his core. They _know_ now, and they’ll destroy him for it. It’s a delightfully dreadful feeling, just like the weightlessness that gripped his core when he fell.

“Consider me speechless from your callous egocentrism,” He voices the first excuse his mind can come up with while he focuses on the boot on his chest. The wait is killing him.

But he still needs to throw them off, not let them know _how deeply_ this affects him. He has to go for the quickest way to keep a mind off such questions: violence. Magic unavailable, he is reduced to grabbing an ankle with his uninjured hand. There are no words for the sheer frustration, the feral delight Lahabrea feels when he’s immediately rebuffed. The butt of a staff catches his wrist, pins his palm into loose dirt with a sharp pang of pain. He hisses, less frustration and more delight, immediately regrets it and decides to kick, something to keep them distracted, unable to notice him.

For once in his tumultuously long life, Lahabrea succeeds.

And like all his successes, it backfires _spectacularly_.

The Warrior of Light is caught off balance by Lahabrea’s knee to the back of their own, wobbling inelegantly to his delight. They lift the foot off his chest, looking like they will fall to the side-

And bring it down right on his dick.

Any smugness he had evaporates in an instant, howling between his teeth, pain so fine it curls heady in his stomach. It’s glorious, painful, and humiliating enough to make him tear down any remaining restraint and buck right into the weight above him. The silk of his pants slides easily, and it’s such a shame to lose that pressure as suddenly as he gained it. But, in absence, his mind can fully scream at him how _wrong_ what he did was. That _now_ , the Warrior knows well that he had been getting off to _everything_ prior to this, but he’s moved way past shame in that now.

“You’re disgusting, you know that, right?” Immediately, Lahabrea laughs in their face, curling his hand into the dirt, lifting his chin up as he grins.

“And what if I do?” His voice is far deeper right after screaming into his teeth, husky and challenging at once. _Do it_ , call him that again, _see_ where it gets you. See where it gets _him_.

For once, something imperceptible crosses the Warrior’s face, several emotions in a chimeric abomination. “You’re getting off,” Their voice is neutral, but he knows the hints of disappointment (Elidibus cannot hide it completely), a hiss between his teeth as a foot once again touches his cock, “To me putting you on your back, insulting you…”

“No.” He lies, in the same breath as a low moan.

A little more pressure is put down, sharp heel prodding at the base of his cock. Lahabrea keens between his teeth, high pitched and needy.

“Certainly sounds like you are. You sound like a veteran whore.”

Lahabrea opens his mouth for another faux denial, but what words he bids to come are interrupted with his voice raising an octave as the Warrior lifts their foot and harshly digs it into the root of his cock and _pulls up_.

“Amazing,” The Warrior begins, voice dropping in turn, “That even with such a gravelly voice…”

Lahabrea gets a breath of air before he’s released from the cloud of pain and pleasure. And mercilessly plunged back into it when that heel comes down _hard_. He shrieks, bucking up, digging heels into the ground hard enough to arch his back. And as quick as it appears, he’s left with the buzz and haze of fading pain, enough to make him pant and twitch.

“…Your screams are so high pitched,” they finish, laying the toe of their greaves right next to Lahabrea’s cock, applying pressure for a half-second before drawing away.

He’s too unfocused to pay attention, only blearily lifting his head when he hears fabric moving. It takes a few moments to register the Warrior of Light is taking their pants off, but when it hits, a wave of shame and lust hits him like a storm. It’s disgraceful to want what’s before him, blasphemous to the deepest recesses of his soul, but that simultaneously makes him want it more, to have it rubbed into his face as he watches the Warrior fumble, hesitate as they consider if they can keep their greaves on, and then _take a knife_ to their pants.

The tattered remnants are tossed to the side, knife coming up, delicately held, sending Lahabrea’s thoughts into terrifying territories that make him bite the inside of his lip. The tip is pointed straight at his face, his eyes wavering between the tip and the bare, wet glint between the Warrior’s thighs. “Take them off,” They command, but Lahabrea dares to bare teeth.

“No,” But he wants to. He loves and dreads that _he’s_ the reason he’s in this situation. He wants that knife to plunge into him as he struggles to get away, at least show some refusal as he is _used_ just how he _wants_ to be.

There’s silence, knife bobbing gently as the Warrior thinks. “If you don’t lift your robes, then you get nothing,” They speak to him in the same tone he used to use on defiant children, shame curling hard enough for Lahabrea to bark a laugh at how it made his legs tremble in excitement.

“You were intent on moaning like a whore as I stepped on your cock. Anyone would think you’d want more,” They add, but he stays quiet, only widens his grin as he denies _them_ for once.

It’s a short staring contest, just a few seconds. The knife lowers, slips back into a holster, letting the Warrior crack their knuckles one at a time. His lip twitches.

“Well, if you don’t want it, then I’ve no business here, don’t I?” Lahabrea’s grin reverses at once.

He didn’t count on them _leaving_. But, in exchange having to _admit_. Verbalize that he wanted them to grind his crotch into the dirt, remind him what they were doing together, mock him for even wanting it. He wants to say it but also not, let them take him and keep his darkest desires for his thoughts only. But no, they have to be _righteous_ about it. Cut him deepest with a blade sharpened by his own fallen ego.

They lean to the side, slowly looking for where they could walk away. Lahabrea swallows, bile rising in the back of his throat, fear curling in his gut. Pride or pleasure, take his pick, because time was _running out_. But those movements are so _deliberately slow_ it infuriates him. They want him, too, surely they’d _ravage_ him here, without his admittance, without making him admit to all the wicked things he wanted now.

But his pulse races when they step away, not even giving him a last glance as they tread past his face. Lahabrea grits his teeth, curses his arousal, and screws his eyes shut. It feels like nails in his mind and body, making him tremble and shake as his very soul screams for him to stay silent.

“…Please,” He whispers, barely audible, feeling his face and ears _burn_.

He can hear the clink of armor pause. That makes it worse: _they heard it_. Hope and despair hit him so hard he swore he could come in his pants right now.

“What did you say?”

_Damn them_. Damn them to _every_ hell every sundered religion had conjured and even those the Ancients had believed in. Once was too much, making his aether curl into himself, his dick throb harder than he could ever believe, make incessant _need_ burn into every fiber of his being.

“Please,” He raises his voice to a conversational level. Metal clinks again.

“Please, _what_?”

Lahabrea whines through his teeth in frustration, but the second time is easier. The third surely would be just as easy. Admitting to what he wanted to _Zodiark’s greatest enemy_ would hurt like anything he took in self-flagellation, but this wouldn’t be in repentance. There is no absolution in this pain, only pure, sweet pleasure, and he _hated_ it. Declaring it would make it public, making it public meant people knew, without a doubt, and would goad him about it. He wets his lips and finally consigns himself to his fate.

“Step on me,” He admits, voice cracking, and he swallows hard.

The sound of metal grows closer, simultaneously inspiring dread and excitement. He can hear and feel someone standing between his waist, but does not will his eyes open, even when he feels the Warrior lean down. They tap his face, gently and so without malice he infuriates himself with how quickly he leans into it. And this is how he is undone and tamed; with gentle cruelty from his mortal enemy.

And he finally opens his eyes, gritting his teeth at the soft, _pitying_ smile aimed at him, surely smug. He squirms, breathing heavy, their weight settling just above his hips, brushing his robes. _Shit_. He didn’t disrobe, the lone fear of being left wanting lancing through his face. His cheek is tapped again, fingers dragging across as they pulled away, scattering thoughts with ease. With an expert’s care, the Warrior pulls their knife back out, grips his robes, pauses, looks at him, then cuts.

The fabric of his robes tears clean and sharp, the finality of his fate sealing with them. Two strokes, across and down, a new parting in his robes that exposes his underwear. That, at least, draws a scoff from the Warrior. “Red lace, _really_?” He can hear them mutter.

He knows they leave nothing to the imagination.

They don’t _touch_ him where he wants, though, where he waited and begged and debased himself just for a gentle (sharp, hard, fast) touch. What comes is for his fractured hand, reminding him of the dull pain as it spikes in intensity. It’s unexpected as the Warrior brings it closer, holding so delicately, keeping the pain from worsening as they inspect his gauntlet. Lahabrea tenses, the radiating pain doing nothing for him with this unknown intent hanging in the air. However, he’s not left to question for long, the Warrior bringing his fingers close to their mouth.

They nip each finger, taking fabric between teeth, harshly scraping his fingers in a way that both entices and inflames his torn nerves, and pulls up. By the third finger, Lahabrea whimpers, wiggles under them, eyes focused on their mouth. They pinch the last finger, pull hard enough that the slide of fabric against his hand hurts so good. They don’t completely take his gauntlet off, but they’re more than happy to use their other hand to yank the fabric over his swollen hand, wrenching a short gasp from Lahabrea as his dick jumps in his pants.

His glove is tossed next to his head, a thumb pressing into his palm, applying sweet pressure that made him howl. “How well can you move your fingers?” They ask, for some unfathomable reason.

The pain makes his mind hazy in the most delicious way. Without question, Lahabrea complies, trying to curl each finger in order. Pain spikes for everything but his thumb, the only finger he doesn’t gasp and shift at. With an appraising hum, the Warrior pulls his hand down, the back of his fingers touching something _wet_. “Break your fingers in me,” They say, releasing his hand, “Surely you know how to lead a service?”

They’re grinning ear to ear, Lahabrea still frozen in shock. Pleasuring the Warrior of Light, and not even by force. They made sure he was fully conscious of what he was doing, that he, and _he alone_ , would do this. Would hurt himself like that. _Damn them_. But how much further could he slide into depravity, a giddy part of himself challenges. And he moves his wrist, hears his bones grind and pain lance up his arm, takes his middle finger and pressed against the wetness between the Warrior’s legs.

The motion hurts as he curls his fingers to his palm, finger sliding in all too easily. But they’re soft and tight around him, easy to rub into as he places his thumb on their clit, gently rubs in time with the thrusting of his finger. He probes with his index finger, slipping in with ease, feeling every nerve fire off a klaxon of pain with every small motion, mixing with the delightful wet pull on his fingers. They’re no virgin, with how easily he can move, how they clench on his fingers hard enough to exacerbate his fractures, a skittering haze that drools into his mind.

He’s decidedly out of practice with his thumbwork (when was the last time he possessed a body with their parts?), but with the Warrior’s breathing as a guide, he thinks he can work around his injury. His own breathing comes in sharp gasps, cold sweat starting to roll as his body reminds him he is _in pain_ , a pain he cannot keep ignoring in favor of how hard it makes his dick press into his laces. But it is a good pain. He enjoys it, the prick and burn, the communion of it and the tight slickness his fingers are in.

Lahabrea draws out his first moan as he rolls his thumb up into their clit, delicately rocking as he hears their voice waver. His vision is starting to fade with how quick he tries to move his wrist, the flames in his hand smoking his brain into a wonderfully hazy state. Eyes unfocused, Lahabrea is only aware of his hand, on the task he was given, hellbent with his usual passion but in the worst possible scenario.

A hand ghosts over his lace, brushing lightly at his balls, and Lahabrea coughs a _noise_ , twitching like something half dead. He slips a third finger in, blearily cackles at the slick, wet noise that goes in tandem with the flare of pain. His furor is awarded, light touch turns more firm, the barest warning given before nails dig into his balls. Lahabrea’s vision blacks out with how _intense_ it is, hearing his voice shatter as his fingers curl deep into the _Warrior of Light_ and his thumb grinds into _their clit_. It’s sharp, smarting, overbearing, he can feel everything and nothing, an orgasm of _pure pain_ that’s released to scatter like any other kind of arousal.

There’s drool in the corner of his mouth and he’s breathing hard, fingers twitching half-awake. His arousal is still there, the bone-deep fatigue of orgasm missing. He can _keep going_. And that alone makes him laugh, a broken crow-laugh that stops only when his wrist is caught. Slowly, reality slides back into place, only hindered by a foreign hand taking one of his balls between fingers, applying soft pressure. Not enough to send him keening, but it’s the good kind of pressure, something that sustains him as his mind clicks everything back into place.

The Warrior of Light makes him flinch when he finally recognizes them, everything clicking into place with terrifying finality.

And the Warrior rips him back to present with a little _too much_ pressure, drawing out a glorious hiss. He submitted, admitted, demanded this, after all. This was all for _him_ , his mind supplied as pressure scattered his thoughts into pieces. A hand grasps his wrist, delicate yet firm, pulling it out of a comfortable heat, slick coating his fingers and running into his palm.

“If you can’t use your fingers, Lahabrea, then perhaps you can make use of that gilded tongue you’re overfond of,” he’s still groggy, a squeeze to his balls only confirming he’s aware enough to register the words.

Everything moves too fast for him, even though it’s slow and deliberate. He glares, the Warrior releases him, weight shifts and his arms are pinned by thighs, injured hand hitting the earth limply, making him twitch as pain crawled liquid up his arm. The uncomfortable pressure lasts for but a second, a hand tangling into Lahabrea’s hair, holding his head back as he stares blearily at the flesh above him. Automatically his good hand curls around a thigh, lifts his head to pay rites.

Well, his epitaph was the _celebrant_. He would be remiss to use his mouth for anything _but_ praises.

Lahabrea’s tongue slides across a thigh, presses light kisses into flesh he can barely focus on as he works his way closer to where his fingers were but a minute ago. It’s slow, deliberate adulation that’s almost a tease, the hand in his hair starting to gently pull. He’s a convincing speaker, after all, one more soft kiss and the hand is insistent, fingers looping into his hair to pull him into the Warrior’s crotch. Closely-cropped hair bites into his lips, fool he would be to not get to work immediately. His tongue swipes up, presses into their clit, lips delicately sucking and drawing out a short, halted gasp.

Upper lip pressed into them, Lahabrea pats their leg, the claws of his gauntlet skittering on a thigh, drawing an appreciative hum. Slowly, as he runs his tongue up the folds of _his_ partner, the back of his claws press into the fullness his other hand was in not too long ago. Fingers bite into his scalp for a second, but Lahabrea smiles into them, taking their clit into his mouth again, not silent in his praise. The fingers relax, relent, and he rubs from knuckle to clawtip, wetting the fabric and metal. One flick of his tongue and he’s pressed harshly into the Warrior’s belly, snorting amusement as he does not relent, ever so carefully slipping metal claws into them, millimeter by millimeter.

The sigh he gets is wonderful, the closest he can get to a divine signal. But he still has work to do, gods aren’t satisfied with just a minute of lip service. No, the most devoted are all too happy to sermon for hours, curl tongue and fingers and treat every stroke like it was their last. With delicate care he can only accomplish through focus and an unfractured hand, Lahabrea’s claws draw a moan or two in between the harsh gasps he brings with his lips.

“Good,” They breathe, “Good boy.”

And somehow, that’s better than the hand roughly fondling his balls right now.

He doesn’t serve Zodiark with _just_ words, though, and his own stimulation is severely lacking. Perhaps a sign of experience and talent, but the Warrior’s hand at his crotch is still, intermittently tightening around his balls if he’s lucky. So, it is up to Lahabrea to find his own painful pleasure, shuddering as he calls upon his aetherial halo, needles of cold pain digging into his body as he wills it to unfurl. It manifests in smoke and shard, material and immaterial, blurry and chipped but still present. The initial agony of pulling his barest soul out fades quickly, earning him a hand pushing him into the dirt.

Of course the Warrior of Light was still unaware of what it was like to be _whole_. They stare, with no small amount of alarm, as his aether manifests and curls around them both. Lahabrea is gentleman enough to still his fingers within them. “What is left of my aether,” He explains, without prompt, “After you so _gently_ stabbed me.”

Their eyes follow a piece of his soul as it drifts past, slowly relaxing as they get used to the presence. They _really_ do not know what to do in this situation, something Lahabrea expected. With their hands no longer forcing him down, Lahabrea easily returns to his ministrations, with the raw, throbbing ache of his soul providing an edge to curl in his gut. A _pity_ , really.

He pulls away to give a kiss to a thigh, return his lips to where they are urged, grin, and swipe his tongue in just the right way to draw harsher breaths. The _throb_ of his soul clouds his mind just right, makes it so much easier to focus on his fingers and tongue as it lances dull in every fiber of his being.

Until something _touches_ him. The pain is exquisite, like prodding a gaping wound, makes his legs jerk and tighten, but there’s that undercurrent of rich pleasure he so craves. Fingers _wind_ around his soul and he muffles his wails in the Warrior’s sex as they stroke. One good turn deserves another, and as they pet and caress his very soul, catch pads of fingers on the nicks and gouges _they made_ ; Lahabrea arches his claws in them, curls his tongue under the hood of their clit and holds back his own moans in favor of supplication.

Legs tremble, Lahabrea only goes harder in his sycophantic ministrations, lips locked around the Warrior’s clit. He’s pressed into them, trying to follow the minute thrust of their hips as he thrusts two clawed fingers into their cunt just hard enough, the blunted tips posing no threat, only hard stimulation. Sucks long and hard on their sex, listening for cries that slowly increased in volume, savored when hands dug hard and harsh to pinprick his scalp and crush his balls, nails clawing into his _soul_.

Something warm latches around one of the tendrils of his soul and makes him promptly short-circuit. Almost copying his own motions, the Warrior sucks and runs their tongue along _his aether-soul_ and it’s absolutely _divine_. It makes his aether grow warm, settle tighter around the _Warrior of Light_ , basking and recoiling from the dull sensation it brings. They, in turn, practically thrust into his mouth, tighten around his fingers, reach up to roughly grab his cock and try their best to stimulate him, loose with nails catching at neglected flesh. It nearly makes him bite his tongue, but he’s attentive to the need building in every motion, knowing they’re close and going to _use_ him until they’re finished.

They still have a hold on _him_ in their mouth, pressure so intense it almost hurts. He keens in time with their weight pressing into him, unable to retract his soul just yet, not until they release him. The hand on his cock tightens, their hand slips, bends, making him spit curses into their sex as his length is _bent_ farther than should be healthy. Dull, all-consuming pain, in tandem with his soul curling and smarting from a thousand cuts, from his _aching_ dick makes him freeze and shriek-moan. There’s a very muffled, very quick apology before he is released, a growl of disappointment quickly muffled with the Warrior’s crotch trying in earnest to grind him into the dirt. The knuckles of the Warrior’s fingers dig into his balls, a far cry from the brief, debilitating pain they wrought second ago.

And when they go over, it’s fierce on his fingers, but teeth champ and bite into the tendril of his aether still in their mouth, making his voice shriek again as stimulation turns far harder than he bargained for. Oh, how he _regrets_ their hand wasn’t on him anymore. How he _regrets_ the alacrity with which powerful muscles relax under him, how _easily_ his soul slips from their mouth. Lahabrea is gentle, careful with his claws, only laving lightly at their clit, trying to avoid overstimulation with their release not even a minute old. He pulls away to kiss their thigh, relishes the blunt death grip his balls are in, his own leg twitching as he is ever so careful to control himself, not leave any marks on their pristine flesh.

The hand in his hair lets go, earning a disappointed huff, but it ruffles his bangs, gently patting before drawing away. On trembling legs, the Warrior stands, still catching their breath, thighs visibly stained with spit and slick. They lightly bat at a trail of deep purple aether, earning a sharp gasp before it slinks back towards its master. Pulling his soul back into himself isn’t as painful as unfolding it, but it’s a pain good enough to make his vision blur for a second.

And, in that moment of clarity, a few things hit Lahabrea:

They apologized. They pet him. He did _well_.

Now that deserved a reward, did it?

Carefully, deliberately, knowing they’re keeping an eye on him, Lahabrea raises his gauntlet to his lips, unmasked eye hooded. They pause, looming over his chest, transfixed. With practiced ease and lack of gag reflex, Lahabrea slowly slips his claws past spit-slicked lips, humming in appreciation, letting the tips of his claws touch the back of his throat, thrusting gently. Closing his eyes, he tips his head back, listens to the shift of the Warrior above him.

“Like sucking my cock, Lahabrea?” They tease, a weight suddenly on his groin.

_Yes_.

He moans, a boot pressing into his cock, so neglected until now. His pants are practically soaked in precum, release yet so far away despite all the abuse his balls endured. He bucks into the hard pressure as the toe rocks into the head of his cock, firm and unyielding. He’s _shameless_ , really, fucking his mouth with his fingers and bucking into a boot, chasing the harsh stimulation. The toe drags down his length, making Lahabrea warble and arch his back, finally able to feel need grip his groin, building slowly and steadily. Almost too steadily- he had hoped this would last longer, but with how he’s writhing in the dirt, pulling his fingers out of his mouth only to gasp a short warning…

The foot on his cock disappears, letting him slowly wind back down with the tick of every second passing in his head. Five seconds pass with the agony of denial.

It slams into his balls the next, hard enough to push him forward, make him _howl_ in effulgent stimulation, not even a second to let him recover before that same foot drags up to his cock, lifting again to smash down, grinding with full force. Lahabrea’s voice shorts out as his vision whites out, so close when the pain hits him, dragging him unceremoniously over the edge, intense and as hot as any flame he could conjure.

And he is out the next few seconds, into a slumber he long denied, exacerbated by pain and his penchant for body hopping.

He’s warm when he wakes, breath hot on his face, curled up and comfortable. Had Elidibus found him collapsed again, and out of pity dragged him to his quarters? No, that can’t be it, his mind was filling in blanks ever so slowly, parts of him sore in a way that made something heady smolder within him. A hand runs fingers through his hair, gentle in a way his companions never were post-coitus. His aether had recovered, only by a smidge, so he couldn’t have been out long- perhaps a half hour? His mind is so fogged that when he can finally focus, he still has little clue as to where and with whom he is.

Outside, that’s a given, and the breast he presses into is so soft and warm from his breath. He moves one of his hands, tsk-ing under his breath when pain grates on his frayed mind. His other, however, is fine. But, where did he wound-

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty?”

_Warrior of Light_.

Ignoring every stab of pain, Lahabrea visibly, bodily, aetherically recoils. He scrambles, pushes, crawls in shock and horror, a hand flying up to touch his broken mask, realizing in horror that half of his face is exposed, there’s a slit between his legs, his cum drying in his lace. Frenetic, he’s touching everything, taking stock, making half-formed words of horror as everything clicks into lurid, glorious detail.

“You!” Lahabrea finally screams, pausing to pick his gauntlet up off the ground, but keeps the vitriolic look. His voice is hoarse, a harsh croak, painful.

The Warrior simply looks satisfied, legs spread and exposing their naked sex, hands behind their head, looking amused. No response.

“How dare you! I am not some toy to be- to be _chosen_ for your meaningless mortal desires made manifest!” He had to stutter, had to stop his sinful mouth from uttering _used_.

“Nice to see you up, was wondering when you’d screech me to deaf.”

That only spurs Lahabrea to flare what little aether has left, almost using it until he realizes that folly. He’s so close to affording a teleport… “My voice is a blessing, and you shall appreciate it once I use it to call your doom!”

“Oh, I _certainly_ can appreciate your lyrical talents. You have a _very_ talented tongue.” Their grin goes shit-eating. Lahabrea full-body flinches.

He almost replies, but the Warrior moves before he can vocalize his displeasure, tossing a vividly blue potion at him. “Elixir. Just a little gift in appreciation of your many talents~”

Oh _fuck them_.

_Not like that_.

He stares at the potion, carefully tossed just a meter away from him, like it’s the mutilated corpse of an Ancient. He turns his nose up, crosses his arms, turns his head away in disgust.

But it would be hours longer if he didn’t. Hours that meant someone would come looking for him eventually. He practically broadcasts his fall from unyielding defiance, the cracks settling in like the many already in his mask. With the most disgusted look, Lahabrea takes a sharp breath, levels a terrible, petulant glare, and darts forwards. He keeps his eyes on the Warrior as he picks the bottle up and flees, a run of shame only Hydaelyn’s finest got to witness, disappearing into the shifting briars and trees of the Sylphlands.

Terrible.

Absolutely terrible.

(And he’d do it again)

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe this canonized a tag.
> 
> _A fucking CBT fic._
> 
> (Special thanks to JanuaryBlue for helping by editing/suggesting/goading me)


End file.
